


Expiration Date

by inkling



Series: inkling's Stoker series [2]
Category: Emergency!
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-01
Updated: 2000-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkling/pseuds/inkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Mike is going crazy, he's the only one at 51s who really understands why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expiration Date

**Author's Note:**

> "Crazy Man Michael" by Richard Thompson and David Swarbrick  
> Copyright Sparta Florida/Warlock Music  
> recorded by Fairport Convention on their album "Liege and Lief"  
> (This is the version sung by Sandy Denny--ignore the later version sung by a guy. Blech.)
> 
> "Ragged Heroes" by John Tams  
> Copyright Songs of Polygram International (BMI)  
> recorded by The Albion Band, on their album "Rise Up Like the Sun"
> 
>  
> 
> More gratitude than I can ever express along with humongous helpings of virtual chocolates and roses to my beta readers, peregrin anna sensei and MJ: For Extra-Strength HandHolding, Rapid-Fire Paranoia Suppression, and Spew-Checking Above and Beyond the Call of Duty. Special thanks to Cheryl for setting me straight on saws vs. jaws and extracting me from my own ignorance about extractions, to Pat for her medical expertise, and to Rose Po and the E!fic list in general for answers to pesky little questions and not bouncing me when I got bouncy.
> 
> The "I always knew lima beans were evil" line is straight from peregrin anna. Thanks, Sis, for letting me put it in Chet's mouth.
> 
> The lima bean incident is real, but the circumstances have been changed to fit the story. In August, 1999, a tank containing twenty tons of lima beans fell off its trailer on the Interstate 5 Bridge between Portland, Oregon, and Vancouver, Washington. One of the bridge's steel support beams was actually bent when the tank hit it, and the bridge was shut down for over 6 hours while they determined if the damage was a "threat to public safety." (We were caught in the resulting traffic jam for over three hours. And *then* our car broke down! UGH!)

_Within the fire and out upon the sea_   
_Crazy Man Michael was walking..._

Despite his best efforts, the fire had grown continually smaller, while the gathering gloom pulled more and more of his surroundings into itself. Brushing away the cobwebs of his weariness, Mike ignored the creeping shadows as best he could. All that mattered was staying awake, keeping the fire going--keeping the light and warmth and himself alive as long as possible. If the fire went out, he'd never get out of here at all. *IF* the fire went out, he repeated to himself, and tried to ignore the "when" shuddering through his bones as the tiny flames flickered and died briefly before flaring up again.

Steel beams and girders from the collapsed building lay twisted about him like spaghetti, creaking and groaning, the metal moans shivering away into the distance as the wreckage shifted and settled. Occasionally something larger and more solid shrieked and succumbed with a crash to the structure's slow death, but Mike didn't jump at the sudden noises any more. He was too drained, too exhausted now to deny that his own end was creeping relentlessly nearer with each strangled boom in the distance. Hunching his shoulders against the latest wail of tortured metal and stressed construction, Mike fought his body's willingness to surrender to the sleep the shadows urged upon him. He concentrated instead on keeping the tiny fire alive with his ever-dwindling supply of fuel. As long as he had the fire, now licking hungrily at an old-fashioned particleboard clipboard, he could delay the inevitable.

He refused to just give up, to just lie down and sleep.

The clipboard burning down to its last edge, Mike again dug for fuel, his available circle of light circumscribed even further by the advancing darkness. This time his scrabbles in the dust netted him an entire box of pencils, which he fed to the fire two at a time. But it was useless--the gloom about him kept oozing forward, taking more and more of the faintly lit space about Mike for itself. Despite the minuscule fire that threw almost no heat out, Mike felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and he wiped anxiously at the ones that were dripping around his eyes. He'd known this day was coming, had known it for the last twenty-two years, but that didn't mean he had to like it, didn't make it any easier to accept now that the time was actually here. He didn't want to do this, he didn't want to sleep, to slip away in the darkness and dirt, like--

Shuddering, he pulled his thoughts away from that particular picture, and concentrated on feeding the pencil box to the fire, one panel at a time.

 

_He met with a raven with eyes black as coals_  
_And shortly they were a-talking_  
_'Your future, your future, I would tell to you_ _Your future, you have often asked me_  
_...Crazy Man Michael will curs__é__d be.'_

The secret to being inconspicuous lay in the timing. He'd learned to arrive at work before anyone else, to be settled in as part of the scenery by the time the rest of the crew got there. Add the newspaper for him to hide behind, and Mike had gotten through his mornings lately without having to talk to anyone, without having to answer any questions at all.

"Oh, come on, Gage! Even you have to see that 'SATURDAY Night' is a classic! It's gonna be right up there with 'Satisfaction' and all those other famous songs, just you wait and see!"

"Chet, you have to be the only person in the world who thinks that men who dance around a stage in plaid pants--*highwater* plaid pants, if you'll notice--are gonna have any place outside a, a, a *dumpster* in rock'n'roll history."

Mike slumped further down in his chair and held the newspaper up a bit higher as Chet and Johnny's squabbling preceded them into the day room. Not even eight a.m. and those two were already at it. The day just got immeasurably longer.

"Gee, Johnny, how'd you know they wear plaid? Are you a closet fan of their show? You know, the Saturday Night one? How many episodes did you watch? Come on, 'fess up. You know what they say: 'Confession is good for the soul.'"

Mike sighed. Only Chet could get Johnny all worked up over the relative merits of the Bay City Rollers--if there were any, that is.

"Your soul, maybe, Chet, but not mine." A cabinet squeaked; Johnny was after his morning coffee. Chet would be right behind him, dogging his mark all the way. Johnny's voice continued over the gurgling sound of pouring coffee. "And I never watched that stupid show at all! *I* have better things to do on a Saturday night than sit around watching guys strut around on a stage in *plaid* and make fools of themselves."

"Well, you're the resident expert on that subject, Johnny. Nobody makes a better fool around here than you do."

"Hey!" Johnny protested as the coffeepot landed with a bang on the stove, and Mike didn't have to look to see the smirk on Chet's face. The silence lasted for all of two seconds; Chet wasn't gonna let Johnny catch his breath when he already had him on the ropes.

"And I still say 'SATURDAY Night' is a classic--in anybody's book," Chet asserted.

Okay, if Mike could hold out behind the paper long enough, Cap would come in and announce roll call, putting a stop to the insane discussion. Of course, he could always leave the room and read the paper somewhere else. But then he ran the risk of someone coming in and finding him alone and actually wanting to carry on a conversation with him.

"Oh, come ON, Kelly. Even *you* can't believe that!"

Nope, best to stay here, look as normal as possible, and try to pretend he wasn't lost in his own private episode of the Twilight Zone, made all the more macabre by the ridiculous debate swirling around him.

"I don't have to believe, Gage, I *know*. My great-grandma Fahey had the Sight, you know, and I take after her. In anybody's book that song is an absolute classic. Absolute."

"Looks like Chet has a promising career as a bridge salesman if he ever decides to leave firefighting."

Mike nearly stopped breathing when he realized he'd spoken aloud.

"Mike? You say something?" Damn Johnny's sharp ears. Fortunately, they were used to him not talking by now--or they should be.

"Nope." Paper crinkled as Mike ducked further behind the day's issue of the Times. After a second, the argument resumed around him.

"Maybe it's a classic in your book, Chet, but not mine." Marco? When had he walked in? Marco continued, "I'm with Johnny on this one."

"Yeah, right, Marco, the only rock group you listen to is Santana. How classic is that?" Chet sneered.

"Very," Marco stated calmly, before throwing fuel on the fire. "Besides, everybody knows Carlos Santana is the god of all guitarists."

Mike knew Marco would play it straight, if nothing else just to get both Chet and Johnny going again. He had spent some great days off with Marco in the last few years, hitting hole-in-the wall record shops to hunt down the obscure music they both preferred over the current pop faves. Marco looked for Tom Rush and Muddy Waters, Mike for some rather obscure British folk rock for which he'd developed a taste in college. Twice this last week Marco had asked when he wanted to go again, and Mike wasn't entirely sure he'd successfully disguised his reluctance. Why bother? He wasn't going to enjoy the music he had for much longer, let alone anything new.

"Now, I really hate to do this, Marco, but I'm gonna have to tell you I've got a different opinion on this one."

"Hey, did everyone get that? Gage has an opinion!"

"Chet!"

Mike felt safe rolling his eyes; he did have the entire sports section between him and the rest of the room. And he thought *he* was going nuts...If they wanted to talk guitarists, Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits was the best, along with a Brit named Graeme Taylor--not that anyone here had heard of the man or the band he played with. Three months ago Mike would probably have joined the debate, putting his two cents worth in and enjoying the sport along with everyone else. In the seven years they'd been at it he had yet to figure out which was more entertaining: winding Johnny up, or laughing over Roy's longsuffering gloom when he had to deal with his wound-up partner.

But taunting someone else wasn't going to ease the twisted knot Mike's stomach had become lately, wasn't going to erase the leaden dread that weighted his every waking moment. Today he hadn't even been able to face breakfast, settling for a now stone-cold cup of coffee when he got to the station. Trouble was, the lack of both sleep and regular meals was beginning to show, in his face, and in the way his hands sometimes began to shake at odd moments. Thankfully he was good at keeping quiet and staying unobtrusively out of everyone's way. Besides, a few more days and it wouldn't matter anyway, so if he could just keep the hounds at bay a little longer...

The argument continued, and Mike decided he should probably turn the page, just for appearance's sake. Someone pulled out the chair next to him and sat; a coffee cup thunked on the table about the same time as the smell of Old Spice hit his nose. Roy. Good, the quieter half of their paramedic team would probably leave him alone. He shook the paper out just a little bit, and continued his pretense.

"Eric Clapton and Cream," Roy stated calmly as there was a sudden collective pause for breath, and they were off again, this time dropping the bands and going for guitarists alone.

As the debate ebbed and flowed around him, Mike wondered briefly if he should try to say goodbye to his friends. How to actually start such a conversation, he had no clue--not to mention the fact that he couldn't come up with a way to say what he'd like to without giving everything away entirely.

It took a lot of work these days to keep his thoughts from dwelling on things better left unrealized, a lot of effort to keep at bay the fear that had been steadily building within him for the last year. At this late date his hold on things was tenuous at best, and if he wasn't careful the beast would slip its leash and Mike would be undone in front of God and everybody. And he wasn't ready to face that particular hell. No, the best approach was the one he'd been taking for the last six months: _Say nothing and don't think about it and do your damnedest to ignore the sick feeling in your gut every time the tones sounded._

The first note of the tones blasted through the kitchen and the paper was a crumpled mass between his hands before Mike realized the call was for the squad alone. Roy and John fled the kitchen as Cap's voice wafted through the door, acknowledging the call for them. Ignoring the quizzical look Marco was giving him over his coffee cup, Mike shook the paper hard in a vain attempt to straighten the kinked-up newsprint. He refused to acknowledge the footsteps coming his way, mentally cursing whatever god had gifted Chet Kelly with an unerring nose for fresh pigeon. Usually Johnny was enough to distract him, but this time Chet's radar had Mike squarely in its sights.

Mike swore out loud as the Times tore instead of coming out of its kinks. The newsprint rattled when he shook it again. Chet put both hands on the table next to him and leaned forward.

"Whatsamatter, Mikey? Reliving the traumatic newspaper attack you suffered as a child?"

Mike ignored him. He dropped the paper down onto the table, grabbed the top and bottom and yanked. There was silence as all three men stared at the resulting two sections of newsprint in his hands.

"Ouch." Chet's solemn tone couldn't hide the glee he obviously felt at Mike's sudden and all-too-rare vulnerability, while Mike silently cursed the fate that made him so off-kilter today. Thankfully Marco and his coffee were still settled against the counter across the kitchen, staying out of things. Chet, however, leaned further over the table until Mike couldn't avoid looking at him. He put as much wattage as he could into the glare he gave Chet, but he knew as well as the next man that when Chet Kelly was on a roll it took either a tone-out or the wrath of Captain Stanley to shut him up. Unfortunately neither act of God took pity on Mike Stoker this morning. Imperturbable, Chet met Mike's glare and, in a stage whisper, he offered, "Arts and Crafts class isn't until this afternoon, pal, and I don't think papier maché was on the list--at least, not using the Captain's paper."

Mike closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There really were days he wished his friends would just drop off the face of the earth. Ignoring Chet to look down at the mess he'd made of the station's paper, he carefully laid the two sections of wrinkle-free print out on the table and eased them together. He leaned over to be sure he had them lined up exactly, and then tried to lay the other ragged fragments right. Of course, he'd be free of Chet and all his other friends soon enough, whether he wanted to be or not. Or they'd be free of him, whichever way you wanted to look at it. His stomach lurched, and Mike closed his eyes, fighting the sudden nausea and trying to stop the shudder that ran through him at that thought. But he should have known it was too much to ask.

"Mike? Hey, Mikey--" Chet's tone had gone from insolent to concerned in an instant, and sympathetic Chet was definitely scarier than pigeon-hunting Chet. Without looking, Mike shoved the ruined paper across the table and straightened. He shouldered past Chet's outstretched hand and, head down, still avoiding the incredulous stares of his crewmates, stalked across the common room toward the door into the vehicle bay. Captain Stanley materialized in the opening while he was still two steps away from safety.

"Roll call, gents."

His own eyes averted, Mike refused to meet Stanley's gaze, just waited patiently as Cap took in the silent tableau before him. He felt rather than saw the shrugs his crewmates must have offered for explanation, and then Cap stepped back and out of the way and Mike escaped out into the other room.

~~~~~~~

_Michael he ranted and Michael he raved_   
_And beat at the four winds with his fists-oh_   
_He laughed and he cried, he shouted and he swore_   
_For his mad mind had trapped him...oh_

It was a quiet morning for the engine crew; the squad was in and out four times before the engine got a single call. Even then it was just to assist the squad at an "unknown" rescue. It turned out some five-year-old kid had climbed too far up into the cottonwood tree behind his house to get himself down, so Mike was safe staying in the background and facilitating things, hauling equipment, holding a rope, that sort of stuff. He didn't have to get involved, didn't have to get up in the tree, and didn’t have to risk himself at all. Not that that was going to make any difference. When your time came, it came, and there was nothing to be done about it. Mike should know that, and better than most.

The afternoon was slow as well, and the early evening hours found Mike without any chores to keep him busy. The engine shone spotlessly; the bay floors were mopped. He had even finished up in the latrine for Johnny, shrugging the garrulous paramedic's thanks off when the squad came in from its tenth run. Now supper was over and done with. Chet washed dishes as penance for some Phantom prank; Marco had taken pity on him and was helping out while they resurrected the argument with Johnny about the best rock-n-roll guitarist. Cap kept sniping at them to keep things down, he couldn't hear the clues on Jeopardy, and Roy was trying to get the squad's logbook caught up. Mike decided escape was the best defense, and headed into the locker room on a mythical errand.

Once there, Mike washed his hands, and then his face, for no better reason than to be doing something if someone happened to walk in on him. His friends suddenly seemed to have developed an allergy to leaving him alone. The pine-scented cleanser he'd splashed on his shirt finishing up the floors earlier was as good an excuse as any to linger. Going over to his locker and opening it, he spent a long moment staring at the blue uniform shirts hanging in a neat row, before slowly choosing one and taking it out. Five minutes later Mike had finally gotten the old shirt off and the new one on. These last few weeks he had become an artist at procrastination, learning how to draw even the simplest task out to occupy his mind as long as possible. He had to keep his mind busy, otherwise his thoughts had a nasty tendency of rabbiting back to unthinkable topics.

Buttoning the last button on the clean shirt, he reached for the one lying on the bench, carefully pulling the photograph from the front pocket. The shirt dropped onto the bench beside him as he sat, staring at the gray-on-gray tones of the picture.

He didn't know exactly why he'd started carrying the photograph, he just knew that these days he felt incomplete without it on his person somewhere. It went into his shirt pocket at the beginning of every shift, and Mike made sure it stayed there. Nights it stayed beneath his pillow; he didn't think anyone had noticed him carrying it out to the engine when they got toned out, and once there it only took a second or two to slip it into his helmet. If they had noticed, no one said anything. Hell, they were all superstitious--Chet kept a St. Florian's medal in his helmet, Johnny had something tied inside his that he wouldn't discuss, and Marco had a small picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Roy's talisman was a cheap silver fire engine his daughter had given him; Cap's, couple of poker cards left over from a winning hand.

So no one should think twice about Mike's new talisman. Why should they? Just because he'd never felt the need before, just because Mike the Engineer had always felt that the big red fire engine was his talisman, his good luck charm...But lately he'd lost that feeling of being protected, of being looked after. Maybe that was why he'd brought the photograph with him. Too bad it didn't seem to stop the shivers that shook him now every time they went out on a run.

"That's a nice bike."

Mike jerked, swiveling around on the bench and nearly losing the photograph as he grabbed for the crumpled shirt before it fell on the floor. Tightening his grip on the picture, he pulled the shirt back from danger. Then he focused on the picture again to avoid Captain Stanley's concerned gaze as the man swung a long leg over and sat, straddling the bench next to him. Great, just great. He didn't need this, didn't need to try to defend himself or explain himself or anything. The beast had to remain caged and leashed and discussing things was a sure way to let the cat out of--

"What is that, an old Harley?"

Mike pulled himself out of the whirlwind of his thoughts with an effort.

"It's an Indian."

Cap whistled in surprise.

"Really? I've never even seen one of those. They were supposed to be some kind of ride."

Mike nodded. The bike had been a good ride, there was no doubt about that. Both men stared at the picture, but Mike knew Cap couldn't see what he saw. The black and white images gave no indication of the future, either the one immediately following or the one twenty-some-odd years down the road. He swallowed against the sudden sensation of dry dust in his mouth.

"May I?" Captain Stanley held one hand out diffidently, and after a second, Mike allowed him to take the picture, fighting back the panic that rose within him as he felt the thin paper slip through his fingers. He concentrated on breathing slowly and normally as Cap looked closely at the three people in the photo.

"Is that you?" He pointed at the leggy, skinny kid at the tail end of the bike.

Mike hoped the Captain didn't notice how long it took him to answer the question, wouldn't make note of the fact that he couldn't find his voice and simply nodded instead.

"How old were you? Fourteen, fifteen?"

Mike shook his head, and smiled in spite of everything. People always made that mistake. Thank God he'd filled out some as he got older, even if his body weight had taken several years to catch up to his height. The momentary amusement was enough for him to find his voice.

"Eleven. I was eleven that summer."

Cap's mouth said a silent "oh" and his eyebrows went up.

"You got your height early then."

Again, Mike just nodded. And because Cap kept staring at the picture and Mike really wanted it back in his hands, back in his pocket where it needed to be, he answered the question he knew was coming next.

"The man at the head of the bike is my Uncle Rick, and that's my Dad behind me." That information offered, his hand went out automatically. Cap didn't say anything as he gave the picture up. Mike slipped it carefully into his pocket, and then stood and finished tucking in his shirt. Hands on his thighs, Cap watched silently until Mike was done and reaching for his dirty shirt.

"What's your dad do now?"

Mike was proud of himself. He kept the shudder at that inquiry down to what should have been an unnoticeable shiver. He shook the shirt out and folded it before answering.

"Nothing."

Cap frowned.

"He's retired?"

Closing his eyes, Mike turned away from the question, launching the shirt blindly at his locker. Behind him he heard Cap's knees creak as he stood, and Mike flinched infinitesimally away from his quiet concern. Looking everywhere but at the man beside him, he concentrated on shutting his locker door, quietly, carefully. He stared at the pale wood before him for a long moment before he could get enough of the dry dust out of his throat to correct Cap's innocent assumption.

"He's dead," Mike croaked, and couldn't have stopped the words that rushed out afterwards even if he'd tried. "He died less than a week after that picture was taken."

The tones took pity on him this time, and Mike wheeled about and bolted like the coward he was for the engine.

~~~~~~~~

_'You speak with an evil, you speak with a hate_   
_You speak for the devil that haunts me...'_

Mike pulled the engine in behind the squad and killed the motor. While everyone else scrambled out to survey the damage firsthand, he just sat and stared, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly in a vain effort to stop their shaking. The nausea he'd have to live with.

White with a brick half-face, the two story Cape Cod sat in the midst of an upscale neighborhood, one of those places with lots of "atmosphere." In this case "atmosphere" translated to lots of massive trees and picturesque houses--and roads that were a firefighter's nightmare, winding without rhyme or reason between the large, park-like lots. This was the kind of place folks dreamed of raising their kids in, where the neighborhood sold the house for the owner. Of course, the large oak tree cutting the south end of this particular house off from the north end might affect its resale value just a bit.

_LOOK OUT!_

Mike shuddered and opened his door. Luckily, Cap was busy enough with the frantic woman standing in front of the ruined house that he didn't seem to have noticed Mike lagging behind in the rescue effort. Coming around the front of the engine, he stood just behind Chet and Marco as Cap got what details he could.

"I--we thought it was a gunshot, but then there was this huge crash and the whole house sounded like it was coming down!" Short black hair framed a chubby face streaked with make-up, clown-like in the long shadows of sunset. The woman was probably pretty, but her tear-swollen eyes and runny nose made it impossible to tell. She grabbed Cap's arm with both hands. "Please, my babies, Walter, they're still inside. You have to--"

"That's what we're here for, ma'am," Cap cut in. He looked over and gestured with his free arm at the firefighters behind him. "Kelly, you and Lopez check the power lines. Make sure we don't have any danglers." The two men nodded and took off at a run around opposite ends of the house. Cap turned to the woman, and gently disengaged his arm. He took her by the shoulders. "How many people are still inside, Mrs...?"

"Bretthauer," she responded automatically, one hand coming up to cover her mouth after she said it. Her eyes brimming over again, she looked up at Cap pleadingly. The hand dropped away, and she answered, "Th-three. My babies, Amy, and, and Greg--We couldn't find them! Please, they're so little--"

_Mike? Where are you, Buddy? MIKE! Rick, can you see Mike anywhere?_

"Where were they?" Cap's voice was sharp, and Mike flinched, involutarily bringing one hand half up to block--he wasn't sure what. Dropping his hand down to his side, he shifted from foot to foot, and hoped no one else had noticed. But Cap's command had done it's job, gotten the poor woman to focus in spite of her fear, so they could get the information they needed to save her family.

Mrs. Bretthauer jerked a hand behind her, at the house.

"In, in the back bedroom. O-over there, in the corner. Sec-second floor."

"Okay, we'll get them, ma'am. Now, who else is in there?" Roy and Johnny were at the squad, pulling out equipment. Mike hesitated, and then waited behind Cap. He realized his hands were clenched into fists, and forced them to relax.

"Walter, my husband..." She gulped loudly, and closed her eyes. "He tried...he tried to get up to the kids' bedroom, and it all just came down on him. I...I went to call for help." She looked up at Cap, her face crumpling into tears again. "Please, they're...Amy's three, Greg's four. They were asleep, in the nursery. Amy gets scared of the dark, so they share a room..." Her voice was a mere whisper as it trailed away into a soft sob, and Mike's gaze helplessly followed hers back to the devastated house.

It was a tortuous mess of tree and boards and sheet rock. Behind the tree limbs jutting out of the ruined roof into the sky, Mike could see the upper story, the interior opened up like the backside of a dollhouse. A child's bed was tangled ominously with the tree branches between the ground floor and what had been the ceiling of the living room. Choking down the nausea, he looked away, stared at the ground, the air, anywhere but at the sight directly in front of him.

"Okay, where's Walter?" Cap's voice helped him lever things back a bit, and Mike tried to concentrate on the here and now.

In answer the woman waved at the front door. "In there, in the living room...."

In what had been the living room.

Cap patted her shoulder gently as Chet and Marco reappeared. Both men shook their heads, and Cap nodded, returning his attention to the woman. Johnny and Roy were dropping their equipment on the lawn.

"And that's everyone?"

Miserably, she nodded. With a final pat on her shoulder, Cap gratefully handed the sobbing woman off to one of a number of friendly neighbors who were hovering nearby. That done, he let the Sheriff's deputy who had appeared at his elbow shoo everyone back away from the house, and they got down to doing what the Fire Department paid them to do.

"There's no danglers, Cap. Looks like the tree just missed the lines." Chet made his report official as they gathered around Cap, and he nodded. He stared blankly at Mike for a second, ignoring the rest of the knot of firefighters awaiting his command. Mike told himself that Cap was just thinking, and attempted to look as nonchalant as possible. He wasn't sure he'd done a good job of it at all when Cap's gaze finally turned away from him.

"Okay, Kelly, you and Lopez assist Roy on the inside. Chain saw, chocks--make sure it's stable before you go climbing on anything, got it?" Like twin dolls, both men's heads bobbed, but Cap had already turned to the rest of his crew. "Gage, you and Stoker get a ladder and go around to the back of the house. See if you can't get through to the kids' bedroom that way." That said, Cap headed for the cab of the engine. Mike knew he'd be asking dispatch to be sure the power was shut off at this location--and ordering additional ambulances.

_We'll need to call the coroner, Mr. Stoker._

The knot of firemen shifted and then unraveled as the men ran to their appointed tasks. Swallowing bile, Mike automatically turned to follow his crewmates. No one would say anything if he was the last man in, would they? Mike shook his head, willed the nausea away, and began helping to gather gear from the vehicles. Shouldering ropes and one end of the ladder while Johnny grabbed the other, he took two steps toward the house, then hesitated.

"Johnny, just a sec." He set his end of the ladder on the ground, ignoring Johnny's impatient tapping of the axe handle against his leg. Returning to the engine, Mike opened a compartment and grabbed a yellow blanket. He tucked it under his arm and then rejoined Johnny at the ladder.

_Keep this wrapped around you, Mike, okay? You've got to stay warm while I'm gone._

Cap had disappeared into the house after the rest of the crew. Mike and Johnny ran around the house toward the back. Forcing their way through a spreading sugar bush, they broke through into a spacious back yard. The base of the fallen tree stood about ten feet behind the house, the jagged yellow of its heartwood stark against the soft greens of the rest of the yard. A blue rope double snaked across the grass at their feet, ending at a yellow child's swing lying upside down beside the shattered trunk.

Roy's voice, calm and patient as always, floated out from the huge gash bisecting the house.

"My partner is looking for your children, Mr. Bretthauer. My job is to get you out of here. Please, don't move around anymore."

_Ben, don't try to move! I'll take care of Mike, okay?_

Set in the corner of the house, the large, second-story window was remarkably intact, though the wall it was set in disappeared a scant foot from its edge. Dropping both blanket and rope, Mike concentrated on getting the ladder set. As Johnny started to climb, Mike leaned against the ladder, closing his eyes and praying to any god who might be listening that he wasn't going to lose what little bit of Roy's tuna casserole he'd been able to stomach at supper. The ladder shook beneath his cheek as he swallowed his rising nausea back, fighting to keep his mind focused on the job at hand. Why did it have to be like this, taunt him this way? Why didn't it just happen and be over?

"No! You have to find my kids! Can you see them? Forget me, you have to help them first!"

_Get Mike out first; find him and get him out of here, Rick! Dammit, don't worry about me!_

Roy and Johnny spoke almost simultaneously.

"My partner's gonna take care of your kids, okay? You just relax and let me do my job."

"Look out below, I'm gonna break the window."

Mike obediently ducked his head against falling glass. &gt;From the house a quiet command came from Cap; the sound of wood being hammered and shifted accompanied the continued tinkling of breaking glass. The ladder creaked and shifted as Johnny leaned in the window. Given the huge slash that had torn the house wide open, it was almost macabre when the back door of the house opened and Cap came out. Mike straightened up in a hurry, but Cap didn't seem to notice. Pausing a moment to stare at the tree lying quietly in the yard, he shook his head and then walked around everything to join Mike at the base of the ladder.

"What have you got, Gage?" he called up.

"There's a lot of big pieces, Cap." Johnny's voice was muffled as he hung half in and half out of the window, poking and prodding at the debris. Mike didn't envy the paramedic; he knew what Johnny was looking for; moreover, he knew exactly what it looked like. He fought another shudder, and tried to look less nauseous than he felt.

"Amy? Greg?" Johnny's voice called his attention back to the here and now. There was a small sound, like kittens mewling, and all three men tensed.

"AMY? GREG?" Johnny tried again, but the men waiting tensely below couldn't tell if the sound came again. There was no guarantee of anything, at all in this business. Johnny leaned further in the window, before a sharp "GAGE!" from Cap stopped him. With a last look inside, he scrambled down the ladder. Mike took the axe Johnny handed off to him.

"Cap, the ceiling came down in a bunch of large chunks. I can't see anyone, but that noise is coming from the far outside corner of the room, and there's a whole bunch of building material and insulation between that and the window. It seems secure enough, Cap, and there's enough floor space to maneuver. I should be able to get in, no problem."

"That matches what we could see from inside. The outside frame is sturdy?"

"As near as I can tell."

Cap didn't hesitate.

"Okay, I want you roped up. If that floor goes, I don't want to have to dig you out. Mike can man the lines down here." He turned to Mike, but as he opened his mouth, Mike nodded, grateful for any excuse to escape the scene replaying itself before him. He nodded before Cap could frame the question.

"I'll get the belt." Dropping the axe, he was gone, around the house and out into the front yard, the grim scene behind him, where it couldn't make him think about things he'd rather not remember. There wasn't any time to really get himself together, not with the kids' mom over there, still frantically sobbing in the arms of a neighbor.

Pausing at the corner of the house, half behind a narrow oleander bush, Mike gave himself one deep breath, then set his face in his best "everything is under control" mask and headed for the squad. He pointedly ignored the people gathered around the outskirts of the scene as he yanked the compartment open and grabbed the belt. If he hurried, he wouldn't have to deal with any of them; if he kept his manner as businesslike as possible, he'd scare them all off before they gathered enough courage to come bother him.

The chain saw was revving inside the house when he returned. Mike helped Johnny get roped up while the saw whined its way through cut after cut. As they worked on his ropes, Johnny nodded his head toward the other rescue.

"How's it going in there?"

"He's stuck about halfway between the floor and the ceiling. A branch shifted and a lot of debris fell on his leg, but we should be able to get him out all right. Roy doesn't think his leg is broken, just bruised." Cap paused, and his eyes flicked back up to the broken window, where dark blue curtains decorated with Tweety Bird now fluttered gently in the breeze. He took a deep breath, then looked back at Johnny and Mike. "I think mostly he's just worried about his kids."

Johnny nodded.

"Well, that's understandable. Ready, Mike?"

_Don't you worry about me, Mike. I'll be fine. Just keep that fire going, okay?_

"Mike?"

Cap's question overlaid the other, and Mike blinked and tried not to look as embarrassed as he felt.

"Yeah, I'm ready." He avoided the questioning glance Cap gave him, concentrating instead on getting Johnny's rope set, and then playing it out as the paramedic climbed back up to the window. Gage sat on the windowsill and swung one leg, and then the other, into the room.

As he did so, the house creaked and groaned. All three men froze; but where Cap looked up to see what was going to happen, Mike stared down at the ground and tried to forget what that noise meant.

_LOOK OUT!_

He shuddered, and braced himself for Johnny's weight to hit his rope. But nothing else moved or complained, and then Cap's hand beside his lifted. Mike looked up long enough to catch Johnny's answering wave, before he disappeared into the room. That left him to concentrate on the rope playing through his hands. Mike slowly let it out, ignoring the sounds of Johnny calling the kids, the minute crackle of debris being shifted, wishing instead that Cap would go back inside and leave him alone with his dread. But Cap didn't move, just stared upwards at the window. Inside the house the chain saw sputtered and died, and something else creaked. Roy was ordering Chet and Marco to lift and then Johnny's exultant shout cut across it all.

"Got 'em!"

_I'm so sorry, Mike..._

~~~~~~~

_He took out his dagger of fire and of steel_   
_And struck down the raven through the heart-oh_   
_The bird fluttered long and the sky it did spin_   
_And the cold earth did wonder and start-oh._

Mike took a deep breath and slowly relaxed against the brick wall. Traffic moved smoothly along the boulevard in front of the station, but for now he shared the back lot with only shadows and silence. The night sky above was dark grey with few stars visible beyond the lights of the city. The dank air smelled more of exhaust and oil from the nearby refinery than of trees and earth, and Mike was grateful for that small favor. Arms propped on his knees, hands clenched tightly to stop their almost constant shaking, he closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in something, anything--even the way the cold concrete made his butt ache.

Out on the street a vehicle slowed, then changed gears and moved closer. The front garage door began to open, but Mike ignored it, hoping everyone would be caught up in Roy and Johnny's return and not notice his absence. The squad doors slammed, and snatches of the conversation from the open vehicle bay drifted past him as he shuddered, willing the voices from his past away.

"...kids are gonna be fine. That piece of the ceiling landed *exactly* right--"

_You're going to be fine, Mike, just fine._

"That was something else, the way the insulation muffled their voices." Chet's voice interrupted Johnny's report, whether from design or habit after all these years of teasing the dark-haired paramedic, who could tell?

"No, man, what was something was the way that tree..." Marco, he thought, that was Marco. The voices mingled, fading into an unintelligible murmur as the crew moved into the day room. Mike sighed, and unclenched his hands for a minute. Another deep breath, and his hands were fists again. Damn it all, damn everything.

At least tonight's story had a happy ending.

_Life doesn't always give us happy endings, Mike. We don't always get what we want._

He shivered and, screwing his eyes more tightly shut, pounded one fist softly on his knee, willing away Uncle Rick's voice and the ache in his throat that came with it. All Mike wanted now was for this to just to be over. He wanted to be at peace with himself the way he hadn't been for the last week, the last month-- shoot, the entire goddamn year had been hell, and it was getting worse and worse. He'd never expected to last this long, never expected to have to deal with these things at this late date. It should have all been over by now. It had been for his dad, and for Rick. Why he was the exception to the rule, he didn't know. Maybe some sort of warped karmic justice was in play here, that much longer for him to be tormented with--

"Mike?"

Mike jumped. He ignored Captain Stanley for the long moment it took to unclench his hands and swallow twice against the lump in his throat. When he finally looked up, the deep crease between Cap's eyebrows spoke volumes. But once again Mike found himself turning away from the concern there. He didn't want it, couldn't deal with it, not now. Not this close to the end.

"Cap?" His voice was husky, half of it left behind the stubborn lump.

Stanley squatted down beside Mike, arms resting on his thighs and hands dangling between his knees. There was silence for a minute. Mike managed to swallow a bit more of the lump, force it down a bit further, but that was it. Enough, though, that he chanced a glance at his Captain. In the near darkness Stanley's face was skeletal, eyes glinting in the dark hollows of his face.

"You okay? You seemed a bit lost there on that last run." Cap's voice was gentle, but Mike shuddered.

_Mike? You okay, Buddy? Look, I promise, I won't get lost. I wouldn't do that to my favorite nephew._

His hands clenching into fists again, Mike struggled to make his voice as even as he could.

"I'm fine, Cap. Sorry about that, it...it won't happen again." And it wouldn't, whether Mike had anything to do with it or not.

"I'm not worried about anything, Mike, you've always done your job, and then some. You're one of the most conscientious firefighters in the County."

_You did real good, ya know? You kept the fire going like I needed you to. You did *good*, Buddy. You gotta believe me about that, Mike, you have to._

There wasn't anything he could say to either voice, so he simply nodded. He concentrated on staring at the pale stars above them, willing Cap to go back inside and leave him to digest on the knot in his esophagus in peace. The gravel rasped beneath Cap's feet as he shifted his weight a little bit, but he didn't move, didn't get up. Mike waited an interminable moment, and then Cap took a deep breath.

"Mike, you know if there's ever anything you need to talk about, I'm always here."

Mike nodded.

_Mike, please, talk to me. You can't do this on your own. I'm here for ya, Buddy. Let me help._

But he hadn't been there. It had only been a couple of years after his dad died and Uncle Rick had been gone as well. All that had been left for Mike was the long season of waiting, now almost at an end. His hands were cramping; he opened and closed them reflexively, searching for something to say to the man next to him in this time and place.

"Yeah, Cap, I know." He hated the raspy sound of his voice, like he'd been eating smoke instead of grief all day. But the grief had settled in just like it had years ago. He'd been fooling himself all the time in between when he thought he'd gotten rid of it. Mike turned and offered an apologetic smile to his Captain. "Thanks."

Cap waited, but Mike let the silence speak for him. After a long moment, Stanley sighed, clapped his hands against his legs, then stood.

"Well, if you need me you know where I am."

Mike simply nodded, then listened to the slow footsteps as Cap headed for the kitchen door. As it clanked shut behind the other man, he drew in a deep breath and blew it out. Once again he had the darkness and the shadows to himself. But that only lasted a minute, before the back door clanked again, with more footsteps heading his way. Shorter stride this time, and more hesitant than Cap had been.

"Mike?"

Roy. Dammit, what was he today, a specialty event for tag-team worrywarts? But he hadn't been raised by wolves and the manners his mother had drilled into him dictated he answer politely, no matter how much he felt like screaming at this further interruption of his solitude.

"Over here." Mike flexed his hands again. Didn't feel like he'd drawn any blood, not yet. But, then, Roy hadn't been here very long either.

Shoulders slumped and hands in his pockets, Roy walked slowly over to lean against the wall near Mike. For several minutes neither man said anything, then Roy volunteered, "Sure is quiet back here."

It had been until Roy opened his mouth.

"Yeah."

There were tiny screeches from the gravel as Roy shifted again. He must have come to some decision, because he took a deep breath, and then squatted down in almost the same exact spot Captain Stanley had been in. Was there a mark there that Mike had missed somehow?

"Mike..."

Mike stared up at the sky for a bit, but when Roy appeared to be willing to wait forever he finally looked over at his friend. Roy hid his concern better than Cap; in the faint light coming from a nearby streetlight and the open vehicle bay door his face was carefully bland.

"Mike...we were talking...Look, we all know your birthday is the day after tomorrow. You've seemed kind of down lately, so we were thinking...we'd like to take you out. Do something to celebrate." Roy shrugged, and then allowed a glimmer of a smile to show. He held his hands out, and then clasped them together. "Your choice. Miniature golf, or bowling, or...well, whatever you think sounds like fun. And since we're on duty on your birthday we kinda hoped tomorrow would work. Would you mind if we made some plans?"

Mike blinked at Roy in astonishment, then looked away as his friend's expression became obviously hopeful. He tilted his head back until it banged slightly on the wall behind him, and stared up at the sky. Make plans? For his birthday? His friends wanted to plan something for his birthday? Mike swallowed desperately as the need to giggle hysterically swarmed over the knot in his stomach. Hey, sure, why not? A funeral. His friends could plan a funeral. A nice big old-fashioned funeral with a real Irish wake. He wasn't Irish, not that he knew of, but Chet Kelly ought to be good for something. They'd be ahead of the game, that way, when--

"A what?"

Mike's contemplation of his own wake shattered in the face of Roy's disbelief, and he quickly stuffed the laughter bubbling in the back of his throat down into the region of his stomach, along with the lump that had never really left. Damn, of all the things to let slip!

He turned his head to look at Roy, and managed a slight smile. By the frown on Roy's face, he wasn't too convincing.

"I..." What could he say? That if they got a call out tonight he fully expected not to come back from it? That finally, after all these years, it was his turn? That Life and Death had come full circle and both of them had one Michael Richard Stoker dead to rights?

Sure. And Roy would go inside and quietly tell Cap to call in a "Code I" and Mike would get a nice white coat for his ride in the ambulance. The hysteria evaporated as quickly as it had come. His friends were only trying to help. They didn't have to know that there wasn't any way Michael could be at their party, much as he might want to be.

It took a minute, but Michael was finally able to say what he knew Roy wanted to hear.

"Sure, Roy. It's fine. Whatever you guys want to do." Mike looked back up at the stars as the lump in his chest resurrected itself. He shifted on the concrete, easing into a nearby shadow, and blinked against the moisture filling his eyes.

Roy waited a moment more, but again, Mike let the silence speak for him. And, just like Cap, Roy finally took the hint.

"Well...okay. That's...that's good, Mike." Mike didn't answer, just nodded briefly. He turned his face away as Roy stood, hoping to hide the tears now streaking down his cheeks. Roy hesitated a bit longer. "Well, I guess I'd better get back in there before Chet and Johnny take over planning things. You, uh, we'd all probably rather be spared that."

Again, Mike nodded. Roy at least had the grace to ignore the flinch he couldn't prevent when the paramedic gave him a paternal pat on one shoulder before walking away. It wasn't until he heard the doorknob rattle under Roy's hand that Mike could bring himself to say the only thing he really had left to say.

"Roy?" He raised his voice slightly as he called, and felt rather than heard Roy turning toward him. Mike swallowed, fighting the huge lump that tightened his entire chest this time. "Roy, will you tell everyone 'thanks' for me?"

~~~~~~~

_'Oh, where is the raven that I struck down dead_   
_That here did lie on the ground-oh?'_

"LA County Fire Department, Sir. We had a report of a fire in this vicinity."

More than half-asleep when Cap spoke, Mike sprawled gracelessly in the dust. He stared, blinking sweat away as Captain Stanley stepped into the small circle of light, his face once again skeletal, his eyes huge, inky shadows beneath his helmet. Behind him Mike could barely make out the half-lit features of Chet and Marco, the nozzle of the hose they held in their hands glinting in the faint illumination Mike's tiny fire provided. But before he could gather himself enough to speak, before he could pull his long limbs together and sit up to say anything to his Captain and his crewmates, they were getting down to business.

"There it is, guys. Let's get it taken care of. Pal, if you could just step back while we do our jobs..."

Pal? What...? Still struggling against the fog of sleep, Mike was trying to process the fact that his friends didn't recognize him as Cap pointed at the fire. He waved the guys forward, taking charge like he always did. Without looking at Mike, Chet and Marco stepped up, aiming their hose at his faltering fire. Horror brought him all the way awake. Scrambling up on one knee he grabbed at the bottom of Cap's turnout coat with both hands.

"NO!" His objection was lost in a spasm of coughing. Cap turned to him as he coughed on and on, gloved hands coming out to gently help Mike up, then lead him away from where Chet and Marco were manhandling the hose closer to the minute fire he'd nursed for so long. Mike recognized the face Cap wore now, his professional "Get-the-local-yokels-out-of-the-way-so-we-firemen-can-do-our-job" look. It was kind, it was even sympathetic, but it was inexorable.

"Look, pal, I've got a couple of men over here who can take care of you, and we'll have this fire out for you in no time. Don't worry, it's all gonna be okay."

"Cap, it's me! Mike! It's Mike! You can't put this fire out...no! Please, don't--" Mike's plea disappeared into another hacking bout of coughs and Cap put a helpful hand under his arm as he staggered.

"DeSoto, Gage, can you take care of this guy? Looks like he's inhaled some smoke and other junk."

Roy and John materialized out of the darkness, the metal of the Stokes stretcher they dropped to the ground a dull gray stripe against the gloom.

"Got him, Cap."

Still coughing, Mike was unable to verbally protest as he was handed off to Roy, who frustrated his attempt to pull away by tightening his grip on Mike's arm. Johnny was kneeling beside the Stokes and pulling at the blanket covering their equipment. Cap stepped off to the side and pulled his Handy Talky out of his pocket.

"HT51 to Engine 51. Siler, can you get us some pressure on this hose?"

Siler? Who the hell was Siler? Fifty-one was *his* engine! Choking down another cough, Mike struggled to pull out of Roy's grip.

"No, Roy, please..." he wheezed, but Roy, who didn't seem to recognize him either, simply grabbed Mike's other arm as well, and pulled him further away--away from Cap, from the imposter at his engine, away from his Lilliputian fire, dying into embers even as Chet and Marco took careful aim at it. Roy supported him as Mike doubled over with another round of hacking coughs. He didn't want to admit just how hard it was getting to breathe as Roy continued to direct him away from the fire.

"Sir, if you'll just lie down over here? My partner is getting everything ready for you."

Gasping, unable to catch his breath, Mike couldn't protest as Roy obliviously forced him into the shadows, aiming toward the dully-gleaming Stokes. Johnny still knelt beside the stretcher, his hands busy, but the paramedic wasn't opening the biophone or getting oxygen or anything ready for his patient. Roy dragged Mike up to his partner as Johnny pulled at something in the Stokes, yanking the blanket back as he did so. Then Mike got a good look at what his friend was doing, and his stomach clenched in horror. It wasn't a blanket Johnny was working with: he was drawing down the zipper on a black body bag.

"NOOO!"

~~~~~~~

_Crazy Man Michael, he wanders and walks_   
_And talks to the night and the day-oh._   
_But his eyes they are sane and his speech it is clear_   
_And he longs to be far away-oh._

Forty-thousand pounds of lima beans on a roll can do a lot of damage.

Not that Mike wasn't grateful for the reprieve from the latest version of the nightmare that had haunted him for the past three weeks. Shivering inside his turnout coat, he brushed one hand across his face, ruthlessly shoving the image of Johnny kneeling next to a body bag back into his subconscious and ordering it to stay there. That done, he focused on the job at hand, keeping a close eye on the gauges and resting his fingers lightly on the handle of a valve. Wouldn't want Chet and Marco to run out of either water or pressure, not when the job was just about done.

Nothing about the call-out at five a.m. had been unusual; just another MVA, this time on an off-ramp to Interstate 405. They'd arrived on the scene to find a huge green tank resting crossways against a lightpole midway down the circular ramp. Just beyond the tank sat a semi with an empty flatbed trailer. Half a dozen cars had ditched into each other and the beams on either side of the road to avoid the tank as it rolled toward them. A pale blue VW bug had skidded sideways into it; another car was crumpled nearby at the base of a streetlight. That light's pole was now canted crazily toward the one just before the tank, which bowed ever so slightly in return. Two other lightpoles toward the top of the ramp had also been hit by the free-rolling tank, and now stood just slightly off-kilter.

Bad as it looked, all in all, things could have been much worse.

As Johnny and Roy had run to check out the drivers of the various vehicles, Captain Stanley had demanded the driver's manifest to determine just what sort of potentially dangerous cargo he was dealing with. That's when the situation began to be funny.

"Ya know, I always knew lima beans were evil," Chet had deadpanned, and everyone, including Mike, had cracked up. &gt;From the looks he'd gotten from Cap and Roy, Mike realized they'd both noticed the slightly hysterical tone to his laughter. Oh well, thanks to a trucker who hadn't bothered to secure his load properly, a whole lot of people were going to be late for work this morning, and a doomed firefighter had at least one good belly laugh before his time came. It was either that or cry, and Mike wasn't about to do that.

He made a minute adjustment and watched the gauges respond. Someone somewhere was laying on her horn; she wouldn't be the only frustrated driver of the day. This morning's commute was gonna be a bitch. Traffic on the 405 below them was already beginning to snarl as the Highway Patrol rerouted cars around the exit. Above the scene hovered what had to be every damn traffic chopper in the County, their reporters probably about ready to pee their pants with glee. And all because twenty tons of lima beans had decided to play rodeo.

Johnny had already left in the ambulance with the most seriously injured victim, the driver of the VW. The lady was lucky; a broken arm, a possible concussion, and some cuts from flying glass were the worst injuries. Her car wasn't so fortunate, but that was the lesser of two evils. Everyone else, including the driver who'd wrapped his 1958 Corsair around the lightpole to avoid the rolling beans, was out and walking around by the time the fire department hit the scene. From his post at the intersection on top of the ramp, Mike could see Roy still laboring in the grassy inner circle, applying first aid to the one remaining victim who needed his attention. Most of the rest of the personnel on the scene were gathered at the bottom of the ramp, either around the strangely nude semi, or staring at the quiescent tank. No one was standing too close to the tank, no doubt not wanting to be in the way if the beans suddenly decided to attempt another escape.

Mike jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder, and glanced back to find Marco frowning worriedly at him. He didn't try to smile, just returned Marco's gaze with his own sober look. After a second Marco's hand slid off his shoulder, and the shorter man's teeth flashed in the grey dawn light when he spoke.

"We've got the fuel washed away, and CalTrans is taking over. Cap wants us to start packing up."

Mike nodded, and turned to begin shutting things down. He knew that Marco hesitated, seemed to want to say something more to him, but Mike really didn't want to hear anything from anyone right now. After a second Marco's footsteps moved away, back into the hubbub of rescue workers and other assorted folks participating in this event. The engine secure, Mike grabbed the hydrant wrench and headed down the street toward the fire hydrant on the corner. It took less than a minute to get the hose detached and the water shut off. He tucked the wrench under his elbow, slung the end of the hose over his shoulder and headed back the way he'd come, pulling the long canvas tube behind him.

He was almost back to the engine when the faint creaking and groaning brought him to a dead stop. For a second, Mike couldn't breathe, and later he'd swear his heart quit beating as well. Mike stared around him at the knots of men and vehicles dotting the overpass. A news crew from one of the local stations had joined the circus, and more official trucks from more official state departments were parked at crazy angles everywhere he looked. There was another long, nearly inaudible groan and suddenly, everything faded. Mike stood in the midst of thick forest, his own and his father's and Uncle Rick's voices overlaid over the more normal sounds of an accident being wrapped up.

But the creaking and groaning was the same in both worlds.

Captain Stanley's voice calling to Marco cut through the misty forest and Mike blinked the shadows of huge trees away. For another long second he watched the scene in front of him. Emergency lights flashing, a police car blocked traffic to his right. The squad was parked off to the side of the street at the top of the ramp, the engine pulled in at an angle behind it. The first of many tow trucks was being directed into the maze of emergency services vehicles and wrecked cars. Behind everything, the large green tank of beans loomed, almost of a color with the grassy field beyond it. Evil, indeed.

Shaking away the cobwebs, Mike hitched the hose a bit further over his shoulder and started up the overpass again. He was almost at the engine now. At the edge of the berm, Roy was buttoning up the orange biophone. He set it aside on the pavement and began cleaning up the debris he'd scattered while he worked. Then Mike heard it again. He stopped and listened carefully to more moaning and creaking. His first instinct had been right. Somewhere, something large was fighting a losing battle with gravity.

His heart racing now, Mike dropped both wrench and hose, and, turning slowly in a circle, began searching, trying to verify with his eyes what the rest of him knew without a doubt. He ignored the faint twinges in his shoulder and leg; those were from another time and place. What mattered was that he find the source of that sound, now!

Chet materialized beside him, one hand clutching at Mike's turnout sleeve and forcing him to stop.

"Mike? Hey, Mike! What's up, man?"

Still not finding what he sought, Mike ignored Chet. When the stocky firefighter stepped in front of him, Mike jerked his arm out of Chet's grasp and shoved him aside. He took one long step forward, away from the other man, and then continued to turn slowly, his gaze sweeping the sky. Where was that noise coming from? Rebuffed, Chet moved off to one side, where he was less than subtle about waving to someone down the ramp and then pointing at Mike. Okay, so now they were all convinced he was nuts. What they didn't know was that he *knew* this noise, however faint, that he'd heard it over and over again in his nightmares for the last twenty-two years. Dammit, something big was about to fall! Where was it?

It was the movement that caught his eye. There! It was the lightpole just after the intersection, the first one the tank of beans had hit. The pole had bowed slightly with the impact, but seemed sturdy enough. Once the power was shut off no one had really thought much about it. Now no one but Mike seemed to see the slow graceful arc of the pole beginning its fall. Desperately, he estimated the pole's height and calculated its trajectory, just as his father had taught him years ago. The pole was going to land...Roy! Roy was right in the pole's line of fall, closing up the large, black trauma case and completely oblivious to the looming danger behind him.

"Roy!" Mike started toward the paramedic. "Look out!" he choked out, and had one glimpse of the confused glance Roy shot him before he was flying down the road, covering the distance with one eye on the falling streetlight and the other on his friend. After his shout came others, as someone else finally noticed the falling pole. Frowning, Roy got to his feet and took two steps toward Mike, before he looked over his right shoulder. The blonde paramedic barely had time to register his imminent peril before Mike slammed into him, throwing him back, out of the pole's path. Roy flew several feet and then sprawled dazedly across the grass.

Mike meant to follow, but instead he tripped over the biophone and, unable to catch himself, landed full out, half the trauma box beneath his chest.

"Uuuungh!"

The world faded briefly to black, then became a dizzying swirl of light and dark spots. Mike couldn't breathe. He was conscious of his mouth hanging wide open, begging silently for air that refused to enter his lungs, of the sharp edge he lay on, but nothing else. Inertia rolled him off the trauma box, his shoulder thumping on the pavement. Mouth gaping, but unable to even begin to draw in a breath, Mike flopped over onto his back like a stranded fish. His legs tangled with the biophone again and his helmet clattered away. Mike didn't care. There was no oxygen for him to breathe; his body wouldn't cooperate with him on anything. Dimly aware of continued shouting, he blinked swarming black dots away and stared up at the rapidly approaching sky.

If he could have, he would've laughed. He refused to scream. Truth was he couldn't do either one, not without something in his lungs besides vacuum. But it didn't matter--nothing mattered, not anymore. This was it. It had taken the entire damn year, but this was finally it. His fire was going out.

The streetlight was gaining speed as it headed for a landing--directly on top of Mike.

Still no air in his lungs, his fingers scrabbled once or twice against the pebbled asphalt. One leg managed a clumsy kick at the biophone. But it wasn't enough to get him anywhere near safety. Mike blinked more swarming dots away as he vaguely registered the fact that someone, somewhere, was calling his name.

"Da--?"

He strangled on the single syllable. There was no answer but his own aborted wheeze. It didn't matter, he didn't need to breathe. The fire was out. The peace he'd craved for so long was at hand. Acceptance flooded him, and he let his body go limp. Mike stared up through the whirling dots, mesmerized by the flickering pattern they created against the approaching metal.

And then suddenly the yelling got a whole lot louder and something brown and bulky slammed into him, and rolled him over and over again, out of harm's way in the instant before the pole slammed down.

The crash reverberated through the paved earth beneath him and died away. A stunned silence held the scene for the last long seconds it took Mike's lungs to return to speaking terms with the rest of his body. His eyes had closed reflexively when he was broadsided; Mike kept them closed, unwilling to face anyone yet. He fought the weight pinning him to the pavement for the right to breathe. The long, shuddering gasp he finally managed seemed to be the signal everyone was waiting for. Hubbub burbled and burped around him and then roared to life. Someone was yelling, "Did you get that? Please, tell me you got the whole thing!" and Marco was asking Roy if he was okay and--

He was still alive.

But before Mike could decide whether that meant he should laugh or cry, his name was being called again.

"Mike? Mikey?"

The weight holding him down shifted fractionally, and then someone grabbed his shoulder and shook, hard. Mike drew in another deep lungful of air and blinked....

...and found himself staring up into Chet Kelly's grey face, a scant two inches from his own.

Lima beans truly were evil.

_* * *_ __

_Michael he sings the simplest of tunes_   
_And begs the wild woods their pardon..._

"Go ahead, open it."

Despite Chet's reassurances, Mike leaned back in his chair and eyed the package on the table warily. The jukebox behind them whirred and clanked and "Stairway to Heaven" began to play. There were few other patrons in the dimly lit Owl Club on this Tuesday night. In the back of the room, two men played pool on one of the establishment's two tables, a lone, auburn-haired woman their audience. Over near the front door, a young couple leaned close over their small table. A man in a plaid shirt and western vest, with long, curly gray hair flowing out from under his "McCulloch" hat, sat at the bar, chatting with the bartender, who was busily polishing glasses behind the taps. Looked like Station 51's A Shift was probably going to account for most of the evening's take.

Mike drained the bottle of beer and carefully set it down, hoping he wasn't the only one who was enjoying watching Chet squirm as he was forced to wait for Mike's reaction to his "gift." He tilted his head and stared at the crinkled paper from one side and then the other before finally reaching for the brown bag. Shooting a stern glare at Chet, he slowly unrolled the top, reached inside, and drew out...

A can of lima beans.

Someone choked in Johnny's direction, but Mike ignored the noise. He set the can of beans on the table without comment, and reached back into the sack. This time he came up with a small rubber mallet. He stared at it for a moment before laying it on the table by the beans. Sneaking a glance in Chet's direction, he quickly smothered a smile at the firefighter's obvious unease. All that was left was a long box in the bottom of the sack. Mike pulled it out and found himself holding a Sesame Street Lamppost/Oscar the Grouch set.

"Chet!" Marco hissed angrily, and then there was dead silence at the table. Mike looked the set up and down, paying particular attention to the old fashioned streetlight, and then set it precisely between the beans and the mallet. He reached for the new beer that had appeared beside his elbow, and took a long pull on it, staring at the gifts as he did so. There was silence around table, until Chet couldn't stand it any longer.

"I just thought you might like to get even, you know..." His voice faded away miserably at Mike's continued silence. Mike took another drink, and set the bottle on the table. He wiped his mouth with one hand, and leaned forward to stare closely again at the box that held the lightpole. Then he looked up. They were all frowning, clearly worried. Mike shook his head, then grinned at the group in general and Chet in particular.

"Thanks. I just might."

There was a chorus of chuckles around the table, and Chet heaved a gusty sigh of relief.

"Kelly, you twit," growled Cap, but now that his gift was accepted, Chet gleefully ignored both the comment and the accompanying glare.

Mike looked around the circle of faces, then waved his hand beyond Chet's "gifts" to include the fire engine shaped dartboard from Cap, the Adventure People Fire Engine set from Johnny and Roy, and Marco's more unique gift of The Albion Band's latest album. Mike had despaired of ever finding that particular recording on this side of the Atlantic.

"Thanks, guys. You really didn't..." The combined attention of everyone at the table was too much, suddenly, and Mike swallowed hard. "I...This...ah... This is great. Thanks."

He concentrated on his beer during the chorus of "You're welcome's" and "No Problems" and one "De nada."

"We're just all glad you're still here to celebrate," Cap said quietly, and held his beer up when Mike's gaze finally came up to meet his.

"Hear, hear," said Marco, as he lifted his bottle too.

Mike tipped his beer with the rest of the guys at the table, and, after the chink of bottles meeting everyone took a long drink. After that Mike began a minute inspection of the label on his bottle, not wanting to meet anyone's gaze lest he give himself away. The small party the guys had arranged at this local bar really was more than he'd been expecting, more than they usually did for any of their birthdays. Of course it hadn't been much more than steak dinner and beer and a few gag gifts, but still... Staring at the can of lima beans, Mike took another swig of beer, and wondered at the vague unease he felt at the thought of so many people worrying about him.

"No, Johnny, you may not open it. That's Mike's present." Roy retreated behind his beer to smirk as Johnny shot him a nasty glare. He tossed the Adventure People set, which he'd been carefully examining, onto the table, and turned to a sniggering Chet.

"Well, Kelly, are you ready to bow to the master at the pool table?"

Mike never had been able to tell if Johnny really was that clueless, or if he was simply very good at ignoring people when they were laughing at his expense. He should be, given the amount of practice he got.

"Only in your dreams, Gage!" Chet shot back. Chairs screeched as they were pushed back, and, still arguing, Johnny and Chet, with Marco at their heels, headed for the pool tables across the room. Mike choked on his drink for a minute, and then stared at his retreating friends suspiciously. This entire thing looked a little too perfectly orchestrated; Mike had a hard time believing it wasn't some sort of pre-arranged signal. But Cap slouched in his chair, one elbow over the back and rolled his eyes at the departing trio. Roy smiled and shook his head too, before he reached for the Sesame Street Lightpole set and began absently turning it back and forth against the table. Neither man looked guilty, so Mike shrugged his suspicions away. They drank companionably in the silence, while the jukebox clanked again.

_"Carry on, my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done...."_

"Chet should have gotten you one of those, too," Cap said, over the song. Roy gave him a wall-eyed look and shuddered. The box dropped onto the table, where all three men stared at it.

"No thanks, I don't think I want a memento for that." Roy hesitated, then took a deep breath, before staring intently at Mike. "You sure gave me a scare today when you didn't get up, you know that?"

Excruciatingly aware that Cap's sudden frown meant he'd probably caught the undertones in Roy's statement, Mike looked down at the table and concentrated on turning his beer bottle around and around. He wasn't sure he was ready for this, not yet, not now. A few rotations later, he finally met Roy's gaze.

"It wasn't because I wasn't trying," he said softly, and both his companions visibly relaxed.

And it was mostly true.

After a long second, Roy nodded.

"Yeah. Getting the breath knocked out of you like that kinda puts a damper on things." He looked back at the lightpole in front of him. "If Chet had been any further away..."

Mike unwillingly shared the in collective shudder that passed over them. He took another drink of beer, noticing absently that he'd nearly emptied this second bottle. Better be careful; they were on duty tomorrow. There was another long silence for a while. The song and the chatter at the pool tables seemed far away as they all contemplated the morning's "might-have-been's." Deciding he'd rather think about something else, Mike looked around the dimly lit room. The jukebox ran out of both music and change, and Chet's triumphant "YES!" echoed loudly in the sudden silence.

"That was luck, Chester B., pure luck," came Johnny's retort.

"Luck? Luck had nothing to do with it. That was skill, pure skill with a generous dose of natural talent, Gage. Oh, but you wouldn't know anything about either one of those, would you?"

"Chet, Chet, Chet. Resorting to insults already? You must really be scared."

"You know, most days I don't know if I captain a fire station or if I'm head twit of the pre-school from hell," Cap commented sardonically. Mike shared a grin with Roy at the familiar complaint, and reached for his beer. Relaxing back in his chair, Mike rubbed absently at his chest with his free hand. The slight soreness in the center of his ribs where he'd landed on the trauma box was the only physical symptom of this morning's near tragedy.

He'd heard that after a brush with death everything was bigger, better. Colors were brighter, the air was sweeter...but he hadn't noticed that at all. All Mike had noticed after his close encounter with the light pole was an all-encompassing weariness. He'd staggered home after their shift and collapsed across his bed, surfacing from an enervating sleep hours later to the sound of his doorbell going nuts. Roy'd been more than a little frantic by the time Mike had crawled out of the pit of his exhaustion and stumbled to the door. It had taken a long shower and some serious coffee before Mike was awake and limber enough to meet the rest of the guys for his party. It had taken Roy two beers before he'd quit giving Mike the wall-eyed look he'd laid on the Captain just a minute ago.

Nothing like being late for your own almost-wake.

Now, with a good steak and a couple of beers under his belt, and a little time to absorb it all, Mike still wasn't sure what to think about the fact that he was still among the living. He'd put so much time and effort into preparing himself for the end of his life, he really had no idea what to do now that it looked like he was gonna have a "rest of his life." And it wasn't exactly like he had any role models, either.

Of course, there was still half an hour or so left until his thirty-fourth birthday became official. But somehow Mike didn't think it was gonna matter. Not anymore.

Looking up as someone's chair squeaked, Mike just caught the tail end of the look Roy gave Cap, tossing the metaphorical ball his way. Tag-team worrywarts, indeed. He hid his scowl behind the beer, draining the bottle. He had no idea how to answer the questions he knew were coming, no idea how to explain himself to his two friends waiting here. Setting the bottle down, he sighed, and stared off into the shadows in the back of the bar. Maybe his answers lurked there now, in place of his nightmares.

Raucous shouts came from the pool tables, where Chet and Johnny's one-upmanship had proved more entertaining to the other pool players than their own game. Cap finished his own beer, and, noticing Mike's empty bottle, turned to signal the waitress for more. Once they'd all been resupplied, he shifted his chair, then put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

Uh-oh....

"Mike..." Cap hesitated, and stared at his beer, and then looked over at the crowd around the pool tables for a moment, before shooting a helpless glance at Roy.

Looked like Cap didn't know how to start the ball rolling either.

"It was a widow-maker."

It was hard telling who was more shocked when his words materialized in the silence between them: Cap, Roy, or Mike himself.

"A what?" Roy asked, but Mike didn't answer right away. Instead he scratched at an imaginary blemish on the beer bottle and tried to gather his thoughts into some sort of order. He hadn't really intended to say that, had he? Well, it was as good a place as any to start. Maybe for once his subconscious was helping him out. Then again, maybe he'd just had too much beer.

When he looked up, Cap had slumped back in his chair and put one hand in his pocket while the other worried with his drink. But his dark eyes were still focused intently on Mike. Roy, beside him, was just as focused, waiting intently for whatever he would say next. Mike swallowed, and threw one last glance at the safety of the shadows, before meeting his friends' gaze. He took a long, deep breath.

"A widow-maker," he repeated. "A tree. Pacific Yew. A big one. Someone had cut it most of the way through and then left it. It almost fell on me, but my dad pushed me out of the way and it fell on him instead."

_LOOK OUT! MIKE! LOOK OUT!_

"My God...no wonder that rescue yesterday had you rattled." Cap looked rattled himself, his face noticeably pale, even in the soft bar light. Unable to face Cap's empathy straight on, Mike shivered and took refuge from the memories in his beer. He drank and then watched the liquid swirl in the bottle as he played with it. It was easier than facing the images playing through his head. He wasn't really sure he could go on.

But Cap and Roy were patient worrywarts, if nothing else. Neither man said anything; they simply waited quietly while Mike groped his way through the memories for those he wanted to--was able to--share.

"I fell down into some rocks when he pushed me...broke my leg, my collarbone, hit my head. Knocked me out for a minute. Dad..." Mike swallowed against the lump choking off his voice and studied the top of the table, willing the tears away. After a minute the lump relented a bit, and he went on, but his voice was smoky with the grief he couldn't swallow. "The tree landed mostly on his back. He...there wasn't ever really any pain. I didn't understand it then."

_Don't worry about me, Mike. Just stay awake and stay warm and keep the fire going. You have to keep it going until Rick gets back. Can you do that for me, son?_

Roy winced, and Mike knew the paramedic was visualizing the damage a large tree trunk could do to a full-grown man's body. Cap didn't say anything, but the weight of his concern only added to the tightening in Mike's chest. He picked at the label on his beer bottle, and spoke to the table.

"Dad...I think Rick and Dad both knew he wasn't gonna make it...but Rick, he had to go for help. We had to leave Dad under the tree; Rick couldn't lift it and the ground was too hard to dig him out. Rick...he splinted my leg, wrapped me in a blanket and built a fire. He said to keep it going, he'd be back soon. It hurt so bad, and I was so scared, and Dad was under that damn tree where...where I should have been...but he...he just kept telling me I was gonna be fine, that everything was going to be okay." He refused the tears, just flat refused them. "I think...I think I actually believed him, for a while."

Mike took another swallow of beer, and stared at the shadows before him.

"I think I *needed* to believe him." His words dropped like pebbles into the well of quiet at their table, and he listened to the ripples spread outward, through the background noise of the bar and the other patrons, until Roy's voice interrupted their flow.

"But it wasn't okay."

Mike remembered when he saw the hollow look on his friend's face that Roy's dad had died when he was a teenager. Unable to speak for the moment, Mike simply nodded, and drank his beer. He was starting to feel more than a little bit light-headed. Whether from the beer, or the exhaustion stalking him again, or the heaviness of grief, he didn't know, but he pushed the beer away from him when he set it back on the table.

"Dad..." Mike’s voice disappeared. It took him a while to find it, but, once again, his friends were more than patient.

"I fell asleep," Mike tried again, still talking to the table. He felt Roy and Cap lean closer as he hesitated, and he stared desperately at the worn wood, lest he shatter under the weight of their compassion. "Dad tried to talk, to, to keep me talking, but I...I fell asleep...When I woke up, the fire was almost out, and Dad...Dad, he, he was..."

Mike ran a quick hand over his eyes and contemplated the cracks in the table, willing the knot of grief that consumed him to abate.

"Shit," Cap said. Roy sighed heavily, but when Mike chanced a glance at him, the paramedic's face was closed, his gaze distant. Mike wanted to feel some sympathy for their shared history, but he was just too tired, and his own grief too raw.

"Yeah," he said instead, and reached out and tipped his beer bottle, watching the play of light on two-toned amber and remembering. After a second he set the bottle down and looked over at the pool tables. Marco and Johnny had paired up against the two other patrons, while Chet was busy trying to make time with the girl watching.

"How old was your dad when this happened, Mike?"

Damn. He wasn't sure whether or not to be grateful that Roy was so perceptive. His hands lying on the table were fisted, and he focused on relaxing them, finger by finger, while he thought about the answer to the question.

"He was thirty-three."

Cap's eyebrows went up, and Roy nodded, but neither man said anything.

The label on Mike's beer bottle peeled away in satisfyingly large chunks. He killed at least a minute peeling most of it off the bottle and making a neat pile of the paper on the table.

"What happened after that?" Roy's question was soft, but Mike flinched anyway. He flicked a small piece of paper off his fingers, and tried to see where it landed. They were still waiting for his answer when he gave up looking for it. Mike sighed. Might as well get it over with.

"Rick...he tried to help...he tried...He and Dad, they were...They were close, really close. Rick was a couple years younger than my dad. But I...I think I hated him after that..."

"So you wouldn't have to hate yourself."

Mike literally felt his insides freeze for a moment, before he remembered that Roy would know, from his own experience. He didn't want to, but he conceded the point with an abrupt nod. It was all he could do. Then he retreated into somewhat safer territory.

"I wouldn't talk to him. I just shut him out." For lack of any other stalling tactic he checked the level of liquid in his beer, took a drink, and checked the level again. Safer territory? He was sadly mistaken; these memories were just as fraught with grief as the others. But there wasn't any getting out of it now. "He died, two years later. Allergic reaction to some drug."

It was the second time today Mike had been the cause of stunned silence. But this time it was the deep breath Cap took that broke the silence.

"And that made him--"

"Thirty-three when he died. It was in December, right after Christmas."

"And so somehow you got it in your head--"

"That since you were thirty-three this was your year to die, too," Roy matter-of-factly finished the statement for Cap. He met Mike's shocked surprise with a grim smile, and took a drink of his own, long-neglected beer. It was his turn to carefully place his beer on the table and play with it a bit before he met Mike's eyes. "Starting with my forty-first birthday, JoAnn has standing orders to remind me I am *not* my father at least once a week."

Cap was staring at them both, his eyes wide. He leaned forward, one arm on the table.

"You've spent this entire year waiting to die?"

It sounded stupid, Mike knew that. That's why he hadn't told anyone--hadn't wanted to tell anyone, had just tried to fight it out on his own.

Cap was still waiting for an answer, so Mike nodded, his eyes downcast.

"Yeah, I guess so."

Cap didn't say anything. When Mike finally looked up, he was leaning back in his chair, one arm over the back of it and fingers of his other hand drumming on the table. Mike waited forever while Cap thought it all over. Then...

"The mind's a funny thing, pal, and given the circumstances of your dad's and your uncle's deaths..." Cap shrugged, then shook his head, his entire body shivering along with it. He looked for all the world like a long-limbed cat that had just stepped in something unpleasant. "As young as you were when your dad died, as responsible as you must have felt for his death...yeah, it kinda makes sense that it could get all twisted up that way inside your head. Not a pleasant thing to think about."

"And when you add not sleeping and not eating right to the mix..." Roy's voice trailed off, and he gave Mike a look he must be practicing for his kids. Mike hoped it would work better on them. Cap had had more practice; his look demanded an answer. Mike shrugged. Seemed like he'd been doing a lot of that tonight.

"Yeah. It's...ah...I was having nightmares. Sometimes it was easier not to sleep." Maybe Chet was right. Maybe confession was good for the soul.

"Or eat," Cap added pointedly. Caught out, Mike could only nod. Okay, maybe confession was good for the soul, but it wasn't *comfortable*, not at all.

"But you did both today," Roy added, right about the time it dawned on Mike that not only did they accept what he was telling them, they didn't seem to think he was wrong for feeling it. Some of the weight he'd been carrying lifted from his shoulders, and he smiled briefly at Cap and Roy, then ducked his head and started playing with his beeragain. That damned lump was back in his throat, but it was lighter, this time, not so heavy. Maybe he hadn't been crazy after all.

"Johhnneeee!!!" Marco's unbelieving wail cut through his thoughts.

"Now, that--that was NOT my fault, Marco! Chet goosed me!"

"Hey, don't go blaming me for your inability to coordinate your eyes with your body, Gage! But then, that's the story of your love life, isn't it?

"CHET! I'm gonna--"

"Johnny, that was the EIGHT-ball! The eight ball! Do you know what that means?"

"Well, yeah. It kinda sorta means...well, it means we lost. But, look, it was NOT my fault! I told you, Chet over there, he goosed me! With the end of his pole! Check my back, if you don't believe me, there's gotta be a blue mark there from where the tip hit my shirt!"

"Oh, I did NOT, Gage! Quit your whining and accept losing like the loser you really are."

Cap, Roy and Mike shared a chuckle as the argument across the room deteriorated into an insult-throwing contest between Johnny and Chet.

"Preschool, Cap, definitely preschool," Roy said, and they all laughed, the somber mood dissipating momentarily. Mike reached for his beer and slowly finished it. He wasn't sure what to think about Cap and Roy's easy acceptance of his story; he'd spent so much time trying to hide his fear from everyone that he felt strangely vulnerable and naked now that it was out in the open.

"Mike?" Cap was toying with his beer, staring at the water rings it left on the table rather than at his engineer. Mike waited patiently, it was the least he could do. Stanley finally looked up.

"So, ah...you gonna be okay now?"

Mike considered that idea, felt it out the way the tongue feels out a new tooth. Glancing up, the clock above the bar caught his eye. He was officially thirty-four years old. Had been, for the last ten minutes. His expiration date had come and gone, and, unlike his father, unlike his Uncle Rick, Mike was still here, still alive, and still kicking.

He gave his captain a small smile, and nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

_Come, come, throw a penny on the drum_   
_A penny for the passing of the hour_   
_Run, run, see the rising of the sun_   
_Run and see the blooming of the flower_

 


End file.
